


I Occupy A Minor Position

by Maribor_Petrichor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Guilt, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft-centric, Parentlock, Uncle Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10134119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maribor_Petrichor/pseuds/Maribor_Petrichor
Summary: He only took up a small space in Sherlock's life now. A minor position. Mycroft is tasked with walking Rosie back to Baker Street while her fathers go on a chase. His interactions with the little girl bring old memories and regrets to the surface.





	

"Mycroft, why are you here?" Sherlock said sharply.

Mycroft was having a leisurely stroll through Regent's Park when the voice of his younger brother cut through his peaceful musings. He'd just taken in a performance at the Open Air Theater and still had the echoes of the bard's language moving in his mind like music. But his brother put an end to all that.

He was striding up quite quickly with Doctor John Watson at his side and the small girl who they called Rosie between them, holding a balloon.

"No doubt the same reason you are." This was of course, a lie, but he couldn't bear those rare occasions when Sherlock knew something he didn't no matter how infrequently they occurred.

He could have been out here for business. He didn't typically engage in reconnaissance himself but exceptions could be made. Especially as the treadmill was getting rather monotonous. A stroll in the park while keeping a weather eye on an international criminal syndicate wasn't the worst way to spend a Sunday afternoon. He was in no hurry or mood to tell Sherlock the truth.

"What do you know?" Sherlock asked narrowing his eyes.

"I know quite a few things, as a matter of fact. And one of which causes me to extend my congratulations."

Sherlock frowned but then glanced down at his left hand where the ring glinted, bright and gold.

Lord, but he could be dim sometimes.

Mycroft had known things were headed this way since John Watson had come onto his radar. His brother had a type; smart (relatively speaking of course), agile, adept, handsome, a natural leader and someone just as in love with masochism and self flagellation as he. It was all so boring, so easy so spelled out. He could have predicted this, did, in fact, predict this when he met John Watson in that parking lot. It seemed that one of them had finally talked the other one into the inevitability of marriage.

It didn't bother him. Sherlock was gay. That was obvious. Sherlock and John Watson had formed an attachment to each other which deepened and grew more complicated as the years dragged on and oh, how they did drag. They had a claim upon one another, an intellectual claim, a physical claim, a maudlin emotional one and now, it appeared they had gone and made it legal. Privately, so it would seem. He'd just spoken to their mother two days ago and she hadn't mentioned it.

"No," His little brother began with petulant exasperation having predicted his thoughts as he sometimes could. "I didn't tell Mummy. I didn't need the heightened emotion to disrupt the ceremony."

"Thanks for that. Wouldn't want emotion to spoil the day, would we?" John replied.

John Watson was dry and never one to shy away from calling Sherlock on his nonsense. Mycroft had to admit, he liked that.

"You know what I mean." He said quickly but his tone noticeably softened b efore directing his attention back to his brother. "And I assumed you'd have no interest."

"Quite right." Mycroft said quickly. "Now, the case-"

But John cut him off.

"We're not on a case, not yet. We're on our way back from the zoo and we will not be on a case until we get Rosie back to Baker Street."

Mycroft watched and waited for the tired domestic squabble that appeared to be brewing to come to an end. There was little chance his brother would let a small impediment like a child get in the way of whatever-

"Quite right. John. But we haven't much time."

Mycroft blinked. Unexpected. He readjusted his constantly running calculation of Sherlock in his head. He had already adjusted his figures years ago to accommodate the chances he would take for the doctor. Now, the small girl was apparently in the mix as well. He glanced at her and noted that she was staring at him intently. He had met her a few times over the years but hadn't taken much notice. Children were children and one was indiscernible from the other at this age. However, for one reason or another the girl had never been put off by him. He had never brought her a toy or spoken more than a few words to her but she had never regarded him as others of her age had. In fact, she had always smiled.

"Mycroft..." John said, the effort of what he was about to ask appearing plainly on his face. "Would you please take our daughter back to Baker Street?"

Mycroft was aghast. He had had many a wild and beyond the pale request put to him in his day. But never was one of them to take care of a child.

Of the four standing there, only Rosie appeared to think it a grand idea. Breaking away from between the two men she launched herself at the eldest.

"Uncle Mycroft!" She said with apparent delight and he had blanched. There was something about it so untoward. She wrapped her arms around his midsection giving him a hug.

"Actually, Rosamund," He began. "I am n-"

"Mycroft." John Watson began cutting him off a warning edge to his voice. "There are three things to remember about children. Number one; When they hand you a toy phone you answer it and pretend someone is on the other line. Number two; When they show you their teddy bear, or their favorite toy you admire and it and ask questions about it and Number three; When they give you a name, you damn well answer to it. Understand, Uncle Mycroft."

Exactly the sort of emotional and slightly brutish response he expected from the good doctor.

"Not to mention," Sherlock said holding up his left hand flashing the ring. "You are."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, for one of the few times in his life he felt helpless and with regard to the prospect, actually a bit frightened.

"Good, that's all done. Here's the key. Straight back to Baker Street. Text me and him when you get there." John said bending down giving the girl a quick kiss before starting to jog off. "Come on, Sherlock!" he called behind him.

"Mycroft, if she is hurt in anyway, if she is inconvenienced, scared, or if you make her cry I will garrote you but before that I will purchase tickets for every Andrew Lloyd Webber show currently running and present them to our parents in a greeting card forged with your name and a promise to attend every single performance at their side. Understood."

"Understood, brother mine. She won't come to any harm." And then for reasons he didn't wish to delve into he added. "I looked after you as a boy, you know."

"And look how I turned out." He retorted before bending down towards the girl. "Papa and Daddy have to dash but Uncle Mycroft will bring you home, alright. And we'll be back soon."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock gave her a gentle hug.

"Hold tight to that balloon now, alright."

"Alright, bye Papa."

"Goodbye." he said with genuine smile. Standing to his full height he stared at Mycroft.

"Text us." He said quickly before running off after John.

"Papa's fast." She said holding a hand up to her eyes, shielding them from the sun as she watched him run off.

Sherlocks almost immediate attachment to infant after the death of Mary Watson had also been of a surprise to Mycroft. He had assumed his brother shared his distaste for children. The noise. The mess of it all. But there had been a shocking brightness in his voice and demeanor when he spoke of Rosie. Not long after the visits made by John Watson became a permanent stay as did, of course the infant, then toddler then full fledged child who was looking up at him now. She was six years old and she resembled both John and Mary but more so the former. Her life with the two men was all she had ever known. He supposed the moniker "Papa" was inevitable but it still jarred him to hear it.

"Uncle Mycroft will you tie my balloon around my wrist so it doesn't fly away?"

"Erm...yes, of course." He bent over and taking it carefully from her tightly closed fist he looped it around her wrist. The little balled up fist was sweaty and he could see halfmoon nail marks on her palm where she had gripped it tightly.

Already neurotic, he noted. That could be the influence of either of the men.

"Not too tight." She warned gravely. "If it's too tight it''ll cut off my cir'lation and my hand will turn blue and fall off."

"That's not technically what would happen. First there would be a tingling sensation, then a numbing of the wrist and palm which would reach up into the fingers then if the tissue damage were severe enough and the hand couldn't be saved it would be amputated." he said as he finished tying the knot and got to his feet.

"What's amputated?"

"Cut off." he said simply. "Shall we start our walk home?"

"Would it turn blue first?" She asked.

Mycroft sighed. So the endless questions had begun.

"Blue or perhaps a deep purple or eggplant color."

"Why does it turn blue?"

"Because of hypoxia." He said as she started to walk expecting her to join him at his side.

"What's hy-"

"A lack of oxygen. Hypoxia is a lack of oxygen."

She nodded and presumptuously slipped her small hand in his larger one.

He hadn't held the hand of a little girl in his own since...

"You were at the theater." She said after a moment.

He looked down at her curiously.

"Oh and how do you know that?"

"It rained this morning and your backside is all wet in the shape of a chair. They never wipe off the seats. Daddy always lets me sit on his jacket."

"Quite right." He said with a nod, looking at her more closely. "Anything else?"

"You fingers have black marks on them from the ticket. And the cuffs of your trousers are all grassy." She raised her hand and pointed north. "They mowed the lawn over there but not where you came from back there. You walked from the theater and it stained. What show did you see? Daddy took us to a puppet show there once."

Well...this was unexpected. In her own rudimentary way the child had just deduced his whereabouts and provided supporting information.

"A Shakespearian play. Who taught you to look for those things?" He asked.

"What things?"

He sighed. It was impossible to communicate with children.

"The things you noticed about the dampness of my suit and the state of my hands?"

"Daddy and Papa." She turned to squinting up at him and placing a finger to her head in the most serious voice she said "Seeing is one thing. Observing is another. Observe."

A puddle caught her eye and she rushed towards it. Jumping up she splashed down into it. That business done she rushed back to him and took his hand.

"Yes...quite." He replied. They walked a bit longer before either of them spoke.

"If my hand turns blue and gets amputated I can get a hook hand and be a pirate."

He frowned at that. Such a silly trigger but a trigger nonetheless.

"Sherlock wanted to be a pirate."

"Really?"

"Yes, when he was a little boy. Just about your age."

"What did you want to be?" She asked earnestly.

"I...I don't recall."

And he didn't. The years before Sherlock's arrival were spent in that enchanted narcissistic paradise that only single children know. He was jealous of Sherlock's arrival and fearful of losing his place and Eurus, the year after seemed to be the last nail in the coffin. If he was to be special, he would need to find another way to do it other than simply being the only one. He thought Sherlock would prove to be a millstone around his neck but it was the opposite, he loved the little boy and vice versa.

They were thick as thieves. Sherlock always calling out "Mycroft!", toddling, then running after him, always in search, in need of his companionship, his friendship, his attention. It was a heady drug and Mycroft drunk deep. He was jealous of Victor Trevor, as was apparently Eurus. But he never wished upon him the fate he suffered. Ghastly, monstrous, it still chilled him to think on it. But worse for him was watching the light leave his brothers eyes. He retreated from the world, retreated inside himself. And though Mycroft had thought, with grim calculation, that at the very least, the loss of Victor Trevor and the exorcism of Eurus would give him back his brother, the Sherlock lost was not the one returned to him.

He did his best. You can only work with what you have. Mold the clay you have been given. And as Sherlock became colder, more analytical, less social Mycroft did his best to make his need for people and outside influence as miniscule as possible. Had he damaged him in the interim, had he aided his brothers mind to plaster over the memories of a slaughtered playmate and replaced him with an aging, euthanized dog. Yes. Yes, and he made no apologies for him. Surgery, the act of putting a human being back together again is a grim process. Would that it were always so exact and clean. But sometimes things are lost. Sometimes parts must be amputated...for the greater good of the whole.

The loss of Victor Trevor had damaged his brother in a way Mycroft thought irreparable...until John Watson came along. And he watched scars he himself had been unable to heal start to mend. And again, he was jealous, painfully so. It was embarrassing to admit and so he never did. It seemed life was always pulling his brother farther and farther away from him and there was little he could do. They had once been inseparable but he only took up a small space in Sherlock's life now. A minor position.

"Rosamund, do you know what an IQ test is?"

"Uh-huh. Papa gave me one and Daddy got cross."

That gave him all the answer he needed but he pressed onward.

"Do you know what the results were?"

"Papa wanted to put me in a new school but Daddy said no. He said "You're not going to turn her into some posh, prawncy weirdo." What's a prawncy?"

"I believe your father meant "poncy"."

"What's that?"

He gave a dry sort of chuckle.

"Poncy, is what I am." He supplied.

"Oh, well then I want to be that." She said decidedly.

Mycroft looked at her curiously. Her affection for him was baffling. He could make neither heads nor tails of it...but it did take him back. He abhorred sentimentality. And when he did allow himself to indulge it was only in the darkened theater of his home, enjoying an old film or an old family movie, perhaps.

He'd taught him how to play chess and Sherlock had, in turn, taught him to play Operation. After Eurus had been sent away he had been tasked with taking care of his brother largely alone. His parents were in a state of shock and denial. He, at 15 was having almost daily conversations with Uncle Rudy. And Sherlock...somehow Sherlock was lost in the mix. A pariah at school due to rumors of what his sister had done Mycroft forged a note from his parents to have him removed. He personally homeschooled him to the conclusion of the term while researching other schools for the next year. It was at that time that the Redbeard fallacy took over and he did nothing to discourage it.

"I miss our dog." Sherlock said one day.

Mycroft had frowned.

"And what dog was that?"

"Redbeard. He was friendly and nice and he loved me and I loved him."

Mycroft's mind had started to race as he considered the implications. The good and the bad of it all.

The weight of it all and where he might lead it.

"He _was_ a good dog and he loved you very much. Two boys _all by themselves_ need a dog." He'd ventured, trying a hunch that was soon proven right.

"Without Redbeard, it's just the two of us, like before."

Like before. And just like that a best friend and a sister were erased. Mycroft informed his parents of the situation expecting they might suggest therapy. Instead, they agreed the fiction should be preserved. Despite his misgiving, he went along with it. And so the past was paved over. It felt wrong but it was also coupled with relief. He didn't miss Eurus. He'd never formed an attachment to her, such things were impossible and her absence allowed them all to breathe. And though it kept him up at night he still wondered what good would it do for little Sherlock to remember his dead best friend?

Does he abuse the trigger of Redbeard in years to come? Perhaps. But not for any of the reasons Sherlock might now suspect. Redbeard was a tether. It was to pull his little brother back he went too far, ventured too close to what might be dangerous or deadly. Some days, when Sherlock would go charging ahead it was all Mycroft had to give him pause.

The world was a dangerous and foreboding place which was precisely why he had risen so high in government, above government to try and control what he could.

Eurus and what scattered bit of her that remained in Sherlock's mind would be reassembled as a larger warning. The East Wind is always coming, always a danger. The East Wind comes to separate the wheat from the chaff. Be strong. Be brilliant. Be immovable. Be worthy. Be stone.

He had suggested to his brother and his...husband. Hmmm...so it seems they were now. Husband and Husband. He had suggested that they at least hint to the child, Rosamund how and why her mother died. Things like these could be useful. Little traumas to keep her line when those dreadful teenage years came. Built in Aesop's fables to curtail bad behavior. But really...to protect. As always to protect.

It had not been met with a warm welcome.

"I am not doing that to our daughter." John had said with a frown. "The idea that you could even think such a thing..." He didn't end the sentence but instead let it hang, shaking his head in disgust.

Our daughter.

He hadn't expected much from the child, that is when he hadn't bothered to spare her a thought. But now, he was rearranging his expectations. Mary Morstan had been a genius in her own right. Quick. Clever. Ruthless. And he had to grudgingly admit that there were moment of illumination from the doctor as well. With Mary's genetics and Sherlock's influence from so early an age, perhaps...just perhaps...

"And why don't you like school?" He asked her.

"How did you know I don't like school?" She asked.

"Because it is one of the few things the wise share with the foolish."

"It's boring." She said simply hitting the word just as Sherlock always did. She even lowered her voice a bit and he wondered if she even knew she was doing it.

"Of course it's boring. I suspect you're levels above what they're teaching you there. Is that the only reason."

"Peter Boone is a bully."

Mycroft made a mental note of the name Peter Boone.

"Anything else?"

"I'd rather be with Daddy and Papa. I can learn loads more stuff with them. What do you do, Uncle Mycroft?"

"I work in government."

"Like the Prime Minister."

"Oh heavens, nothing so lowly as that. My position is a bit more complex."

She nodded and seemed to consider that.

"Can I come to work with you and see what you do? Maybe I can help. You could write me a note to get out of school."

Her brazenness was so familiar. It tickled long ago and nearly forgotten memories of the presumptuous nature of his little brother...and he laughed.

This for some reason made her laugh too and she swung merrily back and forth the larger hand that held hers.

"You laugh like Papa." She said simply.

"Do I? Sherlock used to laugh all the time."

"Papa laughs. Daddy makes him laugh and so do I. We laugh and laugh at home."

"I'm glad." He said and meant.

John Watson had been the second and likely the last challenge he had faced for Sherlock's attention, his respect and...though he was loathe to admit it, his love. They had been close before the tragedies with Eurus and after that, they reformed in a different but just as close way. If not closer. It was more solemn, more serious but there were moments of brightness, laughter. They used to take long walks about the grounds, Sherlock stopping to notice and ask questions about everything, every frog, every insect. He was inquisitive and though likely to burrow within himself around strangers he was a bit freer with his brother. More relaxed. More likely to laugh. The age difference crept up on them slowly but surely as Mycroft had to turn his attention to grimmer matters, harder choices both for his family and his career. His little brother, again, was left behind, lost in the shuffle to navigate ways and paths he still felt pangs of guilt for not clearing. A sullen school boy grew into a sullen young man and then a far worse off adult. Mycroft, when he spoke of them tried to link them together, as a pair.

"This was never for us, Sherlock."

"We're not like them."

"We don't see things as they do."

But it felt false and wrong on his tongue. Sherlock did not have to turn out like this, damaged, irrevocably so. Mycroft had come to the opinion that in one way or another he would be caring for both his siblings until the day he died.

And then John Watson appeared.

And he had to rethink just _who_ was damaged beyond repair.

Suddenly, Sherlock's sneers were replaced with laughter. He was laughing again. And Mycroft realized that both sides of his prediction had been true. John was both the making of Sherlock and he made him worse than ever. His attachment to the doctor meant he now had an exploitable liability, a bright, flashing pressure point that people had already used time and time and time again to bend Holmes the younger to their will. And it had worked and it would keep on working.

And through it all, Sherlock was happy. And Mycroft saw flashes of that brave, excitable little boy who used to run about, never tiring, dreaming of one day being a pirate.

Perhaps he had achieved his dream. Perhaps it was only possible through John Watson; the man who had returned a sincere, uncynical light to his eyes. Something Mycroft, despite his bumbling attempts, had never been able to do.

The challenger had won and so Mycroft withdrew.

They approached Baker Street, still hand in hand and once there Mycroft straightened the doorknocker before unlocking and entering.

"I want to show you my room!" She shouted taking off before him and rushing up the stairs. He followed, nearly, almost smiling and idly texting both men as to their safe arrival.

Once inside she gave him a tour as though he'd never been there before. On the way to her bedroom, he peeked inside the one his brother shared with the doctor. It was neat, orderly. That must have been John Watson's influence as Sherlock was, by his very nature, slovenly. The bed was unmade and he couldn't stop his mind from deducing the last time they'd had sex. Well, thank heavens that was normal too. He'd worried about that for years as well. While he himself had little interest and while he would, of course, mock his little brother incessantly for it if he did, he did wonder...would he allow himself to be touched? Could he? It seemed the answer, thankfully, was yes.

The entire flat had a controlled chaos to it and as he entered her bedroom and she began to introduce him to what seemed to be every doll that was ever made, he wondered what it would be like to grow up as a child here. It couldn't be easy for her.

"Rosamund," he began "Does the noise of this place ever seem to be too much?"

She looked at him and nodded almost solemnly.

"I imagine your parents must keep late nights. Erratic hours. Lot's of discussion perhaps with raised voices. What do you do?"

She shrugged.

"May I tell you something?" He asked and she nodded enthusiastically. "It's a trick I learned. When you need a place, a quiet place to rest or put your thoughts in order this is something you can do. I want you to close your eyes and picture a building, a building you know very, very well."

He watched as she sat on her bed and did as she was told.

"It could even be Baker Street, if you like."

"Can it be my Barbie house?" She asked.

He glanced at the pink monstrosity that took up far more space in her bedroom than seemed prudent.

"Yes, of course."

"Ok."

"Now, you must picture it down to every detail. The entry way, the stairs, the rooms above and below. You must know them inside out. This must be your place and no one else's. Can you see it, in your mind's eye? Can you put yourself there?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good, now, pick a room, your favorite room and go to it, pull out a chair and sit down."

"I'm sitting on the floor." She stated and he almost smiled again.

"Very well. Is it quiet? Is it comfortable? Is it yours?"

"Yes, Uncle Mycroft."

"Good, I want you to remember this place. Remember it as a place that you can retreat to sort things out. Think of it as a repository..erm..a safe place to hold ideas, to turn them around and discover things. Think of it as a place to keep your memories, all your memories or things that might come up later. Make this place completely your own and it will never ever fail you. Do you understand?"

"Uh-huh."

"Very well done. Now, leave the room, slowly, come down the stairs, through the hall, out the front door and open your eyes."

She did as he asked and smiled at him brightly.

"I like that. I liked going there."

"I thought you might."

Mycroft heard the door open and the two men bluster in engaged in a conversation as to what had gone right and wrong with the chase. It appeared they had been unsuccessful.

"They're back!" Rosie cried out merrily, darting from the room and rushing to her fathers. Mycroft followed. When he arrived back into the central living space he saw both men, on their knees greeting the child as if they hadn't seen her for weeks.

John was the first to stand, his eyes still on the little girl.

"She didn't give you any trouble, did she?"

"On the contrary, she was a delight." Mycroft replied.

Both men turned to look at him.

"A delight?" Sherlock said.

"Yes, a delight. Now, is there anything I need to know about what you both were up to?"

"If we require your assistance we'll be sure to throw the bones and summon you, Mycroft." Sherlock replied.

Why, after all these years did he allow those comments to still sting? Perhaps, because he deserved them.

"Very well then, I shall take my leave." Turning to the little girl he did something he hadn't done for a child since...well, since Sherlock. He stooped down and got to a knee to bid her goodbye. "Miss Rosamund, thank you for your time today and for a most invigorating walk. Next Sunday, perhaps?"

"We should get ice cream." She piped up.

He considered it for a moment and decided he could save a few extra calories to expend on a Sunday treat.

"Yes, I believe we should."

She nodded and breaking away from Sherlock's hand rushed over to Mycroft and hugged him.

He patted her on the head. It was the best he could muster at the moment. He would admit to no one but himself that the embrace felt nice, familiar.

"Yes, quite." He replied, rising to his feet again, not bothering to give the men much of a glance.

"Oh and Rosamund, I'll have Peter Boone and his family investigated."

John jerked his head towards him as he started to leave.

"Pe-Peter from your class?" he asked Rosie. "Wait a minute. You'll have him investigated? Mycroft!"

"Afternoon!" Mycroft called out sounding just this side of merry as he exited the flat.

He began to text as he left Baker Street. Arrangements would have to be made. An alteration to his will, of course. But in addition to that, favors would need to be called in, Rosamund Mary Watson's name would need to be put on The List. The List included the best schools, the best people, the best universities, the best societies, the best clubs. When she came of age it should all be waiting for her. It was an extravagance, no doubt, but what was the point of having the type of stored currency he possessed, monetary and otherwise, to hoard it like a miser.

With a little tutelage she might very well be something remarkable.

Perhaps he could begin serving a long overdue penance.

He couldn't make it up to the little boy who he used to run hand in hand with over hill and dale. But, perhaps he could make it up to the man he had become and the little girl who now called him Papa.

* * *

Continued in ["Quarantine"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10706847)

 


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